


Caged Larks Do Not Sing

by Rainbowspaceshark



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-11-06 14:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17941142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowspaceshark/pseuds/Rainbowspaceshark
Summary: Time can even weather the strongest of friendships. After years apart, can an old bond be mended after a tragedy?(I am bad at writing synopsis, I'm sorry)





	1. Missed Call

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Holy-Shit-Dangan-Ronpa and my boyfriend for betaing for me! I really appreciate you both and I don't think the fic would look half as good with you two! I hope I can find the motivation to keep moving forward!

Momota was exhausted.

Two months since he returned from the space station, and he still felt the heavy weight of gravity on his shoulders with every step. He wanted to be back up in the atmosphere, feeling the weightlessness of the universe. It wasn’t so bad being back on the ground-- it was a lot harder to get in contact with friends up there in the stars. Not only because there was rarely time to send an email, but because Momota was just lost in the beauty of it all. During his downtime, he had mostly just sat and watched everything from a window. Everything in the world just felt so… Small up there.

He had to admit, though, being back on Earth had its upsides. He missed real food-- freshly cooked meals and good friends to share them with-- not that his mission buddies weren’t good company or good friends, but it was nice to see and eat with people outside of his job. Being able to leave and go home sometimes too, or taking a walk around the block, little things he thought he wouldn’t miss in a hundred years! Only to discover how much he did when he was up in the thermosphere.

Momota stretched out from under his kotatsu-- it was old, a fixture in the home his Grandfather installed. A craving for hot pot overcame him. He supposed he had enough in the fridge to make his own, but he despised eating alone. He liked to talk when he ate his meals, and he felt like he didn’t eat enough when others weren’t around (more or less cause he didn’t have anyone else’s plate to eat off of). _Maybe I can invite some people over and make them hot pot._ He got up to check the fridge, see if he had enough portions for at least 3 people to come over before starting to make calls.

Momota knew a lot of people. He knew almost an endless supply of people, it was mind-boggling to others. He once heard that you can only have 150 friends at a time and all others are acquaintances, but Momota never thought that was true. He felt close to all his friends, even ones he hadn’t seen in long periods of time. Unfortunately, a lot of his friends lived pretty far from him. Most of his old school friends lived in Tokyo, or close to it and so did a lot of his buddies from work. He had made many friends in Hokkaido though.

He spent a good hour calling old friends-- quite a few of his friends had already made plans before he realized it was a Friday night. He supposed he had let time slip away from him like that lately. It happened when you lived alone, but he still tried-- even calling a classmate who lived nearby to see if they wanted to come over.

“A voicemail, great,” Momota huffed momentarily, sounding more annoyed then he meant to. He bounced back to his usual upbeat attitude with ease though. “Hey man, it’s Kaito! I haven’t seen you in ages. I know you like a good hot pot. I’m making some and wouldn’t mind the company, I’ll even come get you if the pedals on your bicycle are still “having motor troubles”. Call me back?” He hung up, shaking his head still from the quote. Little bastard, wasn’t really sure why he called him. Maybe he just missed his old high school.

After nearly 2 hours (which, to be fair, Momota had about 20 minutes talks with everyone he had called so far, so he hadn’t really even gone through the half the list of people nearby) an old boot camp buddy had answered.

“Maybe we should just go to a restaurant and get hot pot? Unless you made it already.” Momota thought about it for a moment, stroking his goatee in contemplation, before giving a nod to himself. It was about 9 PM now, and he hadn’t thought to start preparing his hot pot setup before making all these calls.

“Yeah I guess it is a pain to make it now… Wanna meet at the one two blocks from my house?”

“Yeah, sounds good. Be there in 20 minutes!”

“Great! Can’t wait!”

It was a good dinner, he had been able to drink a few beers with his old friend and talk about how life had been going for the both of them. It made him want to see more of his friends, maybe he’d make plans to hang out with some of the ones who lived in Tokyo! He hadn’t seen Shuichi or HaruMaki a lot since high school, it would be great to get the old group back together! He’d email them when he got home.

He stumbled his way to his home, finding that maybe he had been a bit enthusiastic in his alcohol consumption. _Oh well,_ he thought to himself. _I’m not too far from home. I don’t have anything to do tomorrow either._ Carefully, he made his way up to the elevated floor and sat down, taking a moment to rest. He looked down at the house slippers, blinking in confusion. Momota had four sets of slippers, one was his personal pair and the other three were for guests.

One pair was missing, and now that he thought about it, he hadn’t opened the door either. _Maybe… I left it open when I left._ _Robbers don’t change into house slippers to rob your house do they?_ He gave the idea some thought and decided, no, they wouldn’t. Though maybe they would out of habit? Maybe someone stole the slippers? He sighed at the thought, he happened to really like that pair. It had planets embroidered on them. They would be hard to replace in his heart, but he guessed it wasn’t the worst thing to be stolen.

He carefully removed his shoes and replaced them with his slippers. He could check for anything missing when he woke up in the morning. He was tired, and why should he get into a sweat over some robber? He could take them if they were still here, even if he were a bit intoxicated! There was nothing they could steal that he couldn’t replace. Slowly he stood from his spot, heading into the quiet home, boastfully proclaiming, “If anyone’s in my house, I’ll kick your ass! I’d leave now if I were you!” to no response.

The air… Smelled metallic, a little like a butcher shop. Momota began to wonder if he had taken the beef he intended for the hot pot out in the open. It was stronger though, and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge. He walked to the standing lamp in the room, it flickered faintly before bursting with light as he turned it on. He really should replace a lot of these old fixtures, but he never had the heart to remove his grandmother’s interior design. He glanced around the room for the source of the now sickening smell.

Red filled his vision. His kotatsu’s soft baby blue blanket had now bloomed with browning red flowers instead of white. The fern that had carefully sat was now a toppled mess on the floor, soil and blood mixing together in long, ugly smudges on wood. Momota gagged as he approached the gruesome smell of baked gore. He prayed it was an animal who had gotten hurt, broke through the paper doors and went to the warmth of the kotatsu for protection. He knew though, however, the bloodied handprints stretched across his floor were human. He knew that with that much blood lose nothing could still be alive underneath. Carefully he pulled the kotatsu to get a better view of whoever was hidden beneath the blanket.

Laying silent under the once warm, welcoming embrace of his kotatsu was Ouma.


	2. Caller ID

Mornings like these were the kind Saihara liked. It was quiet, the sun was warm and his coffee tasted good. It wasn’t rare having a quiet morning like this: most people didn’t come in till around ten or eleven. He had wondered if he should change his hours of nine to five to eleven to seven.

He wanted to say he hated being a detective, but that wasn’t exactly a true statement. He didn’t like his job, he was unhappy more often than not with it. Saihara had always wished he could find the inspiration to love his work, to have a passion for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do either. He was passionate about the elements of his work. He loved mystery, he loved solving puzzles and putting pieces together. 

He hated what those pieces could do to real human lives.

It stressed him out, trying to figure out a way to tell a wife her husband not only had a mistress but also had 3 other marriages, each with their own set of children. Then to tell a young man that the company he invested in was not only fake but was actually his friend scamming him for millions. Saihara never felt anyone left his office happier than when they came.

Most final meetings ended in screaming. Saihara had learned over the years to not take them as personally as he did in his youth. They aren’t actually mad at you, his therapist had once told him. They’re upset at their own unhappiness. Saihara had made sure to tell himself that whenever someone cut too deep with their words. He’d just let them yell, nodding and saying “I understand how upsetting this is, I can refer you to some of my contacts on how to proceed.” Most of the time, he’d be taken up on the offer, other times he’d be cursed at further for insinuating they couldn't handle this on their own.

Mysteries were so much simpler in books, and solving those mysteries didn't hurt anyone real, and they were fun. His uncle had once suggested that he try writing, and he had, but he fell short on creativity. Not only that, but the action of sitting at his desk and trying to type out a short story just made him think of his father. He decided writing was simply not something he was up to.

So he sat in his office instead. Waiting for a client to call or walk in and disturb the serenity of the room. 

Saihara wished someone with a lost cat would walk in once and awhile. His uncle used to have him deal with those cases a lot in middle school, and more often than not he found a very upset cat who had gotten out and had been trying to get back in. His uncle thought those cases were beneath him as a serious detective, but they made Saihara happy. 

He also wished that once in a while a friend would walk through the door and invite him out to lunch. That hadn't happened in years, though-- it wasn't that he didn't have friends, but… everyone had lives. Many friends he had made over the years had disappeared with time-- some had moved, while others had just lost contact. It made him sad, but he knew it was inevitable in some sense. People change, friends move on, the world spins.

He remembered a post someone once shared on social media. It had said a study had found people could have 150 friends at a time. Saihara didn't believe that. No one could have more than say… ten, or maybe twenty friends. Saihara had a hard enough time keeping track of five people, two of whom were his own aunt and uncle.

Saihara stood from his desk chair, going to the kitchenette in the corner of the office to retrieve another cup of coffee. He had no cases to attend and thus had taken to, more or less, messing around in his office for the day. He had expected at least two calls today-- a divorce lawyer and a high school classmate.

The lawyer, who he periodically sent clients to, had wanted to discuss his recent case. He was nice to chat to, but he rarely saw him outside of his office. Once in a while, they would go out to dinner as a thank you to Saihara for getting so much evidence. He was a decent man, Saihara would even call him a friend on some occasions, but they didn’t talk often enough to solidify such a relationship.

Then there was his classmate. Every Saturday, he would look forward to the familiar ringtone of his personal cell. They would sometimes only be able to talk for a few minutes, sometimes for a few hours, but it was always an enjoyable time for him. Often times, he had found himself silently listening to the words. The vibrant energy was something Saihara looked forward to, they embellished the most mundane of activities and made them sound exciting that even he couldn’t help but see the wonder in the simple acts. He wished he could be closer, and hear everything in person. Phone calls were the best he could do though, and Saihara enjoyed every minute of them.

Saihara had been halfway through pouring his coffee when his cell rang through the office. Odd, he thought as he sipped at the lukewarm drink. This is pretty early for a call. He shrugged it off though, figuring maybe his friend was busy later that day and this was the best time to call. He made his way quickly over to the desk, retrieving the flip phone from his coat pocket in a practiced fashion and opening it to his ear.

“Akamatsu, how is Berlin-”  
“Huh? It’s Kaito. Shuichi, Listen, I… I need your help.”  
\-----  
That Friday night had become a blur, and Momota’s was still reeling over it. He had laid down onto the metal bunk of the cell to try and lessen his headache, both from the approaching hangover and the mess he found himself in. He was still trying to figure out what had occurred. 

Momota had stared at Ouma’s body for what seemed like forever. He lay so still underneath the kotatsu, Momota was certain what he was looking at was a wax figure. Carefully, he leaned down into the bloody mess, his pants soaking in the top layer of gore that had yet to dry onto the hardwood. His mind went blank for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to do. All his astronaut training and he wasn’t sure what to do. He carefully laid his hand onto Ouma’s cheek and… 

It still felt warm.

Anger rose in Momota’s chest, glaring with disgust at the body on the floor. “This… This isn’t a funny joke, Kokichi!! You can’t… You ruined this blanket with this cheap shit!!” He received no response to his shouts, which only made him angrier. He began to violently shake Ouma. “What?! Did you fall asleep in the middle of your prank?! Wake up! It’s not funny!!” He lifted him from the floor, holding him up by the ends of the ugly haori he wore. The once gaudy orange and green had been stained an ugly rust color. He looked him over, wanting to toss him immediately upon the sight. 

“You even ruined my slippers! I really liked those!! What the hell is your problem?!” Momota tossed Ouma back onto the floor, which caused a sickening crack to be heard throughout the house. It made Momota stop, looking back down at the Ouma’s body. He… He thought Ouma would at least try to stop himself from hitting the floor so hard. He went back to the ground, carefully looking him over. “Hey, that… That sounded bad, are you okay?” Ouma continued to not respond, and concern had taken the place of anger. He shouldn’t have thrown him down like that, he could have a concussion. “Come on, Kokichi. Get up, okay? I have a first…” His hand came in contact with his cheek again, the warmth was gone. The cold sent a shock wave through Momota’s whole body.

He went to pick him back up, softly shaking him. This… was just a prank. Ouma was pranking him like he always did. This prank had just… gone too far. “Kokichi, come on. I’m not as mad anymore, wake up.” He set him down on his back, the open flesh more visible now. “I’m going to get the first aid kit, o-okay?” Momota’s voice hitched, he got up and hurried to his kitchen, his slippers leaving bloody prints behind him.

Momota was quick, retrieving his phone from his pocket and dialing emergency services. He held the phone between his shoulder and ear, trying to keep his composure. He rushed the kitchen, not bothering to even turn on the light. 

“119, what is your emergency?”  
“Hello? My… Ouma, he’s really hurt. I think he was playing a prank on me, and I dropped him. He hit his head, I need paramedics!”

The conversation continued as he searched his cupboard, pulling out the first aid kit in a quick fashion that sent cups and a few other items clattering to the floor. He bent down to pick them up, only to feel wetness. He lifted the wet object to get a better look: it was one of his kitchen knives. It was odd that it was still wet, but he set it back on the counter and hurried back to Ouma. He only half listened to the operator’s instructions on how to try and help, his mind already knowing what to do even while he wasn’t fully there.

Paramedics took what felt like forever to get there. Relief fell over Momota’s features at the sight of them though, but his relief was quickly replaced by confusion. They had both stopped dead at the door frame. Their eyes stayed locked on the world famous astronaut, leaning over the former Ultimate Supreme Leader in a blood-soaked display. Momota shifted uncomfortably and had begun to stand, but had stopped mid rise. Very carefully, the head paramedic pushed the man with her to hurry to the two. She turned away, and quietly spoke into her walkie-talkie.

“I’m going to need police back up, I think this may have been a murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Holy-Shit-Dangan-Ronpa on tumblr for betaing once again! You are of great help to me, as someone who hasn't really written seriously in a long time!


	3. Plane Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This chapter is a bit longer than the ones before, I tried to do more this time. I hope you guys like it.

Being thrown in jail was not something the Luminary of the Stars ever expected would happen to him, but there he was. Momota had tried to explain to the head paramedic he hadn’t meant to hurt Ouma that bad: he had only hit his head on the floor, and he wasn’t dead. The blood was just from his prank, nothing else. She told him to sit down though, and to let her and her co-worker do their work to help Ouma. She spoke, an air of command to her voice, but Momota could see the fear in her eyes; she was bluffing He continued to try to convince her but soon obliged to sit down in a nearby chair.

No sooner than he had, the police arrived. The paramedics spoke to them in hushed voices, trying to prevent Momota from hearing. He stood, attempting to butt in, but was quickly intersected and bombarded with questions by a second officer.  
“Where were you tonight?”  
“I was out with a friend?”  
“Who?”  
“Yukimori Soichiro, he’s my old--”  
“How long were you both out?”  
“About 2 hours. Is Ko--”  
“Do you know the victim?”  
“Will you let me finish a sentence?! Fuck, yeah I know Kokichi, is he okay?!”  
“How much have you had to drink?”  
“WHO THE FUCK CARES!! IS KOKICHI OKAY?!”

Two other officers had come over to calm him down and to restrain him from throwing a drunken punch. He was certain he would end up with an attempted assault on an officer, but at the moment, he couldn’t care. They had brought Momota to the police station promptly after, where he was then fingerprinted, questioned, and detained. It was nearing 2 in the morning when they finally put him in a cell. He had opted to make his phone call in the morning, knowing his lawyer would probably not answer till his office hours, anyway.

He still couldn’t get over the fact Ouma was possibly dead, leaning more towards definitely at this rate. How? Who the hell would murder the gremlin? Yeah, he was annoying, Momota knew this from experience, but annoying enough to murder? No. Yes, his pranks sometimes got out of hand, and he didn’t know how to apologize for them properly (once Momota had received a ten thousand yen gift card to a coffee shop only in Tokyo when Ouma had destroyed his garden to the point he had to replant almost everything) but they were never so bad it caused irreparable harm.

Sleeping was difficult, thoughts pounding as he mulled over why someone would murder Ouma. His sleep was only disrupted when the sun hit him directly in the eyes. With a groan, Momota stood up from the metal bench (which was far from comfortable) in the cell and tried to get someone’s attention. It hadn’t taken too long, as the guard was passing by his cell to get back to his desk. The guard was a young man, more than likely in his early twenties, who smiled at Momota, and talked to him. He was excited to see the astronaut in person, even though, all things considered it was a downer. Momota briefly forgot why he had been trying to flag him down, discussing for a moment about space and his work. He only realized that his train of thought had trailed away when his hand slipped down the metal bar.  
“Hey, I’m sorry, but I gotta make my phone call. Can you take me to the phone?”  
The officer blinked, realizing himself where he was and nodding. “Of course, I’m sorry. Who do you need to call?”

Momota gave it some thought. His lawyer was definite, but he wondered if he should call his Grandfather. He decided against it though. His grandfather had gone senile after his grandmother passed, and he may just end up confusing him with this entire thing. Momota decided visiting in person would be best if this got worst and he needed to explain to him where he was. He wasn’t sure who else he may have needed to call at the moment, but then it hit him.

“Is there any way I could have two calls?”

\------------------------------------------------------  
“Akamatsu, how is Berlin-”  
“Huh? It’s Kaito. Shuichi, Listen, I… I need your help.”

“Oh.” Saihara hadn’t meant to speak in such a disappointed manner, but it was how it came out. The informality that he had once been so excited to hear had somehow stung now. He hadn’t heard anyone call him by his first name in years, aside from his aunt and uncle, and it had felt… wrong. “I’m sorry, Momota-kun,” He attempted to exaggerate saying Momota’s surname, hoping maybe he would take the hint. Knowing Momota, though, 5 years of radio silence between them didn’t mean he wouldn’t just jump right back into how things were. “I was expecting another call. What can I help you with?”  
“It’s really bad, Shuichi.” Momota’s voice sounded gruff like he hadn’t had a glass of water in a long time. To say this began to draw Shuichi’s concern was an understatement. Yes, they hadn’t spoken over the phone in years, but he still knew Momota’s voice, and he knew even if Kaito was in trouble he’d still be brash about it.  
“Kokichi’s dead.”  
Saihara blinked, the name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite recall where he had heard it. He wondered for a moment why Momota would call him about this he could have left him a message on Facebook or something, like he usually did. “Who’s Kokichi?”  
“... Ouma? You don’t remember Ouma? He harassed us all throughout high school. How could you possibly forget?” The tone of Momota’s voice made Saihara almost feel bad for not remembering the given name of a classmate he was never fond of. He shook his head, sighing softly.  
“Oh, uh, sorry. No, I remember Ouma, I never called him by his first name. He’s dead? How did he die?” A part of Saihara felt this was just one of Ouma’s pranks that maybe Momota had fallen for. He was rather susceptible to falling for such things in high school, and a part of himself found it hard to believe Ouma would be dead.  
“... He was murdered.” There was a mixture of frustration and sadness coating Momota’s words, Saihara could visualize him punching the closest wall in frustration as he spoke. The questions in his eyes as he wondered why this happened. He shook his head again though, letting the moment fade from his mind’s eye as Momota spoke again. “They think I killed him.”  
“Wait what?” Saihara felt almost lost for words, not sure how else to respond to that statement. “What do you mean they think you murdered him? Why? Where was the body found? Where were you--”  
“I’m in jail! I can’t answer a ton of questions! I could only convince them to let me have two phone calls, and I get 5 minutes for each!!” Anger came out in his words as he cut him off, but Momota quickly calmed his voice when he realized his anger was misplaced. It hadn’t been Saihara’s fault he was there. “Listen, I’m having my lawyer send you money for the next flight here. We’ll talk more once you get here, but I want you to come here as fast as possible.”  
“I…” Saihara paused. He wanted to help Momota, and it wasn’t as though anything was holding him back from doing so. A sadness hit him though at the realization that this hadn’t been a call between friends. This was a service call. Momota saw him as the Ultimate Detective, and not as Saihara Shuichi anymore. A part of him wanted to tell him he couldn’t go, the part that felt the painful cut ties of the once strong friendship. He took a deep breath, though, and sighed out of obligation. “I mean, of course. I can be there as soon as possible, Momota-san.”  
\------------------------------------------  
A plane from the Narita International Airport in Chiba to New Chitose Airport in Hokkaido was not a long one, 2 hours at the most, but Saihara felt like the nearly 10-hour train ride would have been better on his stomach. Sure, Momota had sent him the little over twelve thousand yen to get the next flight available, but Saihara had wished nearly five minutes in that he had paid the extra fifteen thousand to just take the trains. He could have lied and told Momota that the plane had been the next day.

However, this was a rather important matter, and his comfort in transportation could be dealt with on the ride home. Saihara looked over a rough transcript he wrote after he had finished the call with Momota. The conversation was still vivid enough in his head, but it was always good to keep such things for record. It was still… Crazy. Ouma was dead. He would have never called Ouma a friend by any means, and he supposed under normal circumstances his death would have been a blip on his radar and vanish just as fast. The fact someone murdered him was… Well, he hated to admit, unsurprising. Ouma knew how to push people’s buttons and had the tendency of going too far. The fact someone would want to murder him over it seemed extreme, but not inconceivable. Saihara had seen people kill for far less.

Why was Momota being framed for the murder, though? In high school, the two had butted heads more times than Saihara could count. Nothing worth murdering over, though. Not to mention that had been over ten years ago. If he had more time to speak to him, maybe he could’ve gotten more details about what was happening. Even his lawyer had been very hushed on what had occurred, probably fearful Saihara would take the money and just tell the media about the mess. He still needed to talk to Momota, and the authorities, of course, but he still would have liked more details going into this.

Saihara wished he had asked Momota if he had booked him a hotel to stay at during the investigation. After he gathered all the information he could, he wanted to go somewhere he could put it all together quietly. A place to just lay down to think. He knew he could write it down in the bill he would inevitably have to give Momota for his services, but a part of him felt wrong for even thinking about giving Momota that.

Should he really feel wrong about giving a man who hadn’t spoken to him in 5 years a bill? Probably not. It’s not as though he hadn’t “spoken” to him at all. He’d get the occasional text and Facebook message, but none of the conversations were what they used to be. They had become short and had long silences in between. At first, Saihara had chalked it up to Momota going to a different college, which then became training, work, and eventually going to space. Soon, though, it felt like he was making excuses for the astronaut’s absence. He had become only a step on the long ladder that was Momota’s life.

He had felt incredibly hurt when it hit him that the person he had trusted so much in high school may have let go of him. He kept dwelling on the thought for longer than he’d liked to admit, letting it settle to the pit of his stomach. After months of feeling like he had lost a part of himself, he could push himself to move on. He had talked about it to Akamatsu and his therapist, and he felt like his skin had toughened and things like silence from people that once meant so much no longer cut so deep.

He hoped that was true enough after he left this case.

Saihara arrived before getting too sick on the plane and thankfully was informed upon his arrival that a car had been brought to take him to his intended destination two-and-a-half hours away. He was grateful that, presumably; the lawyer had thought ahead and had not expected him to find a rental car in such a short notice. The car was rather spacious and even had a privacy window between him and the driver. Still, Saihara felt that was not enough privacy to speak on his phone to the police.Hopefully the lawyer would let him look at the case file. He rested his head against the cool glass of the window, moving the lip of his hat to get a more comfortable position. A quick look at his watch revealed it to be almost two in the afternoon.

It was not the most ideal time for a nap, but it certainly would make the trip go faster.

\---------------------------  
The police station was unusually quiet - no news vans or reporters floating about. It wasn’t like every day they arrested a famous astronaut, but Saihara supposed that it could have been possible it hadn’t been leaked yet—though that was an unlikely possibility. Saihara took a quick look around the lobby, noting that there were a few people lingering about. Two people were quietly sitting close to the door, one looking through the doorway, the other holding his head down. Both men looked tired, the one with his head down clutching something so tightly in his hands, Saihara swore they were turning purple. The other was softly rubbing his back, his concerned gaze falling on Saihara for a moment before returning to his friend. Across from them was a man sleeping handcuffed to the bench, and near the reception was an older man dressed in a nice suit. Saihara made his way to him, knowing the look of a lawyer when he saw one. He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but was cut off.  
“Saihara Shuichi, I presume.” The lawyer looked at him, and Saihara suddenly felt as though someone had caught him cutting class in his presence. He bowed politely to the man.  
“How did you know?” Saihara spoke finally after rising again.  
“My client described what you looked like,” The lawyer shook his head, looking over Saihara. “I also looked you up before sending you any money, you’re a detective, correct?”  
“I am.” Saihara inwardly sighed. He felt eyes on his back, looking down at the floor because of the feeling of too many people staring at him. “Ah, where is--”  
“My client,” The lawyer said in a firm voice as he cut Saihara off. “Would not allow me to post bail until you arrived. I will do so now. He asked if you would go to see him when you got here.” He pointed towards the double doors leading to the holding cells. Saihara looked towards them and hesitated.  
He stood there for a moment looking at the doors, unsure of how to proceed. What would he say to Momota? Hello? A simple greeting felt too small, but he wasn’t sure what to say otherwise. He could feel sweat forming on his brow. Swallowing, he made his way towards them.  
\--------------------------------

Momota paced back and forth in his cell, stopping periodically to look to the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes after four now; he had been in here for over twelve hours. He could have left. His lawyer was waiting in the lobby to post bail, but Momota had asked him to wait for Saihara. The man had looked at Momota like he had gone mad, but what else was he supposed to do? Saihara knew to come to the police station, and even if Momota left now, going back home by himself didn’t seem like a good option. Who knows what the police still left there. Momota doubted they left the body, but what if they did? He didn’t want to walk in and see Ouma’s corpse cold on the floor. They may not even let him go back, it was an active crime scene.

Momota sighed, stopping mid pace through the cell. Looking back at the clock. 4:17 PM. He groaned. Why was it taking so long for Saihara to get here? Maybe he could have called his lawyer over and asked him to post bail early, but sitting in the police's lobby seemed less enjoyable. Too many people would have eyes on him there, and they wouldn’t be kind looks. At least here in the cell, he was isolated from others. The isolation was killing him, though.

Pacing again. The repetitive motion was soothing somehow: going around in a circle after circle after circle, eyes focused strictly on an off color grey brick on an otherwise perfectly uniform wall, only losing the sight for a breath before it was back in view. He had become so fixated on it, a part of him felt panicked when he could no longer see the brick. A breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding would release when it returned to his view. The process repeated over and over and had honestly given Momota a headache.

 _“You pace a LOT when you’re not sure what to do, did you know that?”_  
_Yeah, I know that._  
_“You should TOTALLY keep doing it, it’s not at ALL annoying to watch.”_  
_Stop watching then._  
_“Oh, now why would I do that when it’s so entertaining to watch you go in tiny circles for hours? Honestly, I should have brought popcorn and--”  
Kokichi, I swear to fucking-- ___

____

Momota stopped and slumped down on the closest bench in the cell. He held his head for a moment.

 _At least I don’t bite my thumb off when I’m uncertain, like someone._  
_“I still have three quarters of my right thumb, I didn’t bite it all off!”_  
_That’s doesn’t make it better..._  
_“What are you thinking about anyway, Kai-chan?”_

What was Momota thinking about? A conversation that took place years ago? Why? He rubbed his eyes, sighing to himself.

“... Momota-san?”

Momota looked up, letting the troubled look fall away and a grin clear away the tired of his face.

“Shuichi!”

The sudden change in Momota’s sullen appearance had nearly startled Saihara. It was almost like he was watching a sad puppy who just heard a squeaky toy go off. He gave a nod at his name, watching as the guard on duty opened the cell up to let Momota out. With a sudden burst of energy, Momota pounced. He made his way quickly over to Saihara, getting the smaller man trapped into a tight bear hug.  
“I’ve missed you, sidekick! How have you been? How’s life been? Have you been keeping in contact with HaruMaki? She lives in Tokyo too, last I heard--”  
“Momota-san—I can’t breathe--” Saihara wheezed out the words, causing Momota to pause briefly to release him. A short, chuckled “sorry” left his lips before he went to continue his tirade of questions. Saihara quickly stopped him before he could let another word leave his lips.  
“We need to talk about Ouma’s murder, Momota-san.”  
“Can’t we do that later? I haven’t seen you in, what? Three years--?”  
“Seven years, Momota-san.”  
“SEVEN YEARS???” Momota’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What do you mean?? Our high school has that picnic, you and I--”  
“I haven’t attended that picnic in five years, Momota-san. We could not have been there together three years ago.”  
Momota’s demeanor deflated for a moment, lost in thought. “Seven years… Fuck, I can’t believe I lost track of time that bad.” A smiled returned, just as vibrant as any galaxy. “Well, that just means I have to make triple sure we make up for lost time then, right?” His hand clapped against Saihara’s shoulder, making the shorter man flinch and back away from the touch. A trace of confusion came and went quickly on Momota’s face. He gave a friendly shrug and a laugh, heading for the way out. “Well, come on now! Have you been to Hokkaido before, Shuichi?”  
“Momota-san, we should talk about Ouma--”  
“Man, come on, that’s so dark. We can talk about all that later, can’t we? I’ve been locked in a jail cell since last night, let’s go get lunch and catch up.”

Saihara was flabbergasted to say the least. He watched, frozen in place as Momota made his way to the door leading to the lobby. The carefree attitude was… astonishing. How could someone accused of murder have such an attitude? Was he so certain he’d be found without guilt just because Saihara was there? He was a decent enough detective, but even then he wasn’t sure he could succeed. He opened his mouth as if to protest, though he wasn’t sure what to say as it hung open in a state of disbelief.

Momota looked back as he opened the door, blinking at the sight of the confused Saihara. “What’s the matter?” He chuckled, holding the door open. “Come on, I’m sure you’re hungry! I feel like I have eaten nothing in forever! Have you eaten since the plane?”  
“... No, I suppose I haven’t.” Saihara finally let his shoulders fall with a defeated sigh. He knew Momota would still be Momota no matter what, and that he should not have been surprised a murder would be sidelined by his stomach. He made his way towards him, Momota opening the doors wide and entering the main lobby.  
The motion had been quick and unexpected. Saihara barely had time to register it all as a body came full force and slammed a fist right into Momota’s face before just colliding fully and slamming him to the ground. Saihara quickly stepped out of the way as the man who had been with him quickly went to grab his friend.  
“WHAT THE FUCK--?!” Momota exclaimed, grabbing his cheek. The anger in his face vanished though, and Saihara stood confused. Momota had the tendency to change emotions quick, but this was too quick even for him to drop anger.  
“H-H-Ho—You—YOU FUCKER.” The man stared down at him, his words barely escaping him. Messy black hair almost obstructed the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. His friend, a rather tall, thin framed man with soft sandy hair covering his face, rubbed his shoulders, softly speaking to him.  
“You said you just wanted to talk--”  
“HE TRUSTED YOU!! HOW COULD YOU?!”  
“We should go.” The friend felt the eyes of officers approaching. Saihara quickly looked down at Momota and noticed his eyes were locked on something. Following his gaze, Saihara realized it had been on the fist that had punched him. The man had finally loosened the hold on the item he held so tightly when Saihara had walked in.  
It was a checkered scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Holy-Shit-Dangan-Ronpa for betaing!  
> Comments are very appreciated! I haven't written a very long time and getting some constructive criticism is always welcome! Thank you again for reading my fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read my fic! I really hope you enjoyed it!


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